The Traits of Serpents
by Aurora Enkeli Medeis
Summary: Those cunning folks use any means to achieve their ends" What will begin as revenge in the form of Gryffindor vs. Slytherin warfare will disolve into something no one could have bet on. (HPDM and some DMBZ)


**Notes:** I felt it time that I wrote a story from the perspective of the Slytherins and this is what has happened. There will be slash of a Draco/Harry variety eventually (and I stress that fact of eventually). Up until that point there will be some mild Draco/Blaise. However for the first time a story line is taking precedent over slash (did I hear gasps?).

**Warnings:** There will slash as I said before, if it is not your thing you know where to go. As the fic goes on it will get dark. So dark in fact that we will find ourselves with violence (a lot of it actually); mentions of sexual abuse (not detailed I don't think) and my favourite: Dark!Harry

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"_Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll __make your real friends  
__Those cunning folks use any means  
__to achieve their ends."_

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Pride: **noun the trait of being spurred on by a dislike of falling below your standards.

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The noble, pureblood House of Slytherin has long welcomed those students that were seen by the Sorting Hat to be ambitious, cunning, devious, determined and out for only themselves. These little snakes are all so proud of their ancient lineage that when it is soiled upon by discriminative figures their egocentric sense of self-righteousness will kick in.

However, they find the halls of Hogwarts polluted by the stench of mudbloods and the nuisance of the half-bloods. All these green and silver clad wizards and witches can do is shake their collective serpentine heads in dismay when they see the vision that Salazar had, decimated by the admittance of such pupils.

They are raised on a fodder of pureblood politics. Now, outsiders often see these children as if they are being molded into the image of their parents and becoming mere clones. The truth, as will be seen, is that although they hold all the ideals installed into them, they have minds of their own enough to question what has been taught to them.

Those who dwell in the dark dungeons of the castle have a innate thirst to prove themselves, bred into them since birth. For many years some pureblood children can become consumed with their desire to prove their self-worth, not to society or their peers but to their parents.

When blinded by pride and self-righteousness there is no telling how far young vertebrates of malcontent will go to _"achieve their ends"_...

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Draco Malfoy sat, dressed in impeccable black robes, on one of many wooden benches. His feet were resting on the stone floor and his hands were positioned just above either knee. He tossed his head slightly in an attempt to move his jaw-length blond hair from where it was irritating his chin.

On Draco's left hand side sat his mother. Narcissa was also clad in black robes, tailored at the waist to accentuate the curve of her hips. Her blonde hair hung loosely over her shoulders, descending into soft ringlets towards the ends.

The torches on the walls of the dark stone room flickered as a door in the corner swung open. An icy cold floated through the dungeon as two hooded guards glided into the room, the limp form of a man held up between them. The dark, hooded figures escorted the man into the centre of the room and he fell unceremoniously onto a wooden chair. Chains that adorned said chair began glowing gold and slowly wound themselves around the mans ankles and wrists. It seemed a waste: the man barely had the strength to hold his head up, let alone make a futile bid for freedom.

The guards retreated, returning through the door in the far corner. The frosty breeze that had been blowing in the door left but the air of foreboding continued to hang heavily in the room.

The dementors of Azkaban had been replaced with guards, all specially selected by the Ministry of Magic. It became a common misconception that the prisoners would now be treated at least a little better but, as had turned out, they were just as malnourished and mistreated as before. Although instead of living out their worst memories over and over they were simply beaten: whether as punishment for disrespecting the guards or simply as part of some sadistic sport.

The man on the chair was dressed only in thin, graying robes which were splattered with dirt, grime and what appeared to be the odd blood stain. His skin was a sallow, sickly gray. There were dark rings beneath his eyes and lines of sudden aging around his mouth, eyes and across his forehead. A once chiseled, aristocratic face was now thin and hollow, cheeks seemingly caving in on themselves. Blond hair stuck flat atop his head with grease and dirt, the ends tangled and knotted.

If Draco had not know that this was his father then he would never have recognized the man. He heard his mother take in a discreet, sharp breath as she surveyed her husband's appearance and he reached over to give her slender hand a brief squeeze. She turned to Draco, giving him a wane smile that didn't reach as far as her gray eyes.

Draco turned back round to look at Lucius. He was surprised at how quickly his father seemed to have cracked. Draco had expected his father to exercise his arrogant authority over the Azkaban guards in the same way he did with everyone else. From the decidedly finger-shaped bruises that could be seen on Lucius' exposed left wrist it would certainly seem that he had tried. Now, however, he appeared to be a mere shell of the man he once was.

Draco felt an uncharacteristic disappointment directed towards his father: the man whom he had idolized since infant hood. Where was his Malfoy pride as he hung his head? Where was his pureblood pride as he sat chained, defeated and broken before the Wizengamot and under the scrutiny of throngs of mudblood lovers?

He flexed his hands, unaware that up to that point his fingers had been tensed into fists. A voice from the shadowed seats of the Wizengamot resounded through the dungeon.

"The sentencing of one Lucius Malfoy on this day, July nineteenth, will now commence." Draco felt his body tense at the cold voice, the scratching of the scribe's quill sounded too loud against the deathly silence of the room.

"May the record show that Lucius Malfoy stands to face punishment for the crimes he was found guilty of exactly nine days ago. The crimes being: allegiances with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, conspiracy, assault and reported cases of the use of Unforgivables. Those persons giving sentence are the same as was stated at said trial." Draco's mouth was growing dry, his heart pounding in his chest.

"After consideration by the Wizengamot, all members reached the mutual decision that the prisoner should face incarceration." Draco's chest tightened but he had been expecting it. Murmurs of agreement could be heard from around him on the benches.

"Lucius Malfoy?" At being addressed directly Lucius managed to force his head upwards. For a spilt second Draco thought he saw defiance flash in his father's silver eyes but as quickly as it came it was gone.

"You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in the wizarding prison of Azkaban effective immediately. This case is adjourned." The murmurs grew louder as people began filing from the rows.

Draco's eyes stayed focussed on his father, even as the guards came back into the dungeons, bringing with them the icy breeze. Draco couldn't feel it. Everything in his body was centered around the knowledge that he had just lost his father. He could hear Narcissa's shaking breaths as she tried to maintain decorum: it wouldn't do for her to lose face in public.

As the chains retracted from the chair and the guards hoisted Lucius up, the broken man turned to where his wife and son were still sitting. His eyes met with Narcissa's first and with what light was left in them tried to say 'I'm sorry'.

Then they came to rest on Draco's and all he could think at that moment was how alike they were. Lucius could see the disappointment ill-concealed on his son's face and so pulled his shoulders up. His knees were weak and shaking but he would not allow his son to watch him dragged away to his fate. The guards turned him around and lead him out.

Draco turned to the pale face of his mother, her gray eyes shining with unspilt tears. It was only them left in the room now, save for the scribe who was still gathering parchment into his arms. Draco wrapped an arm around Narcissa's neck, something he could only do now he had grown several inches, and rest her head on his shoulder.

Narcissa shuddered with a quiet sob as Draco's body began pulsing with an anger he had never felt. The two of them stood up, Narcissa pulling from Draco and walking ahead of him.

As they made their way across the dungeon to the exit thoughts of revenge were spiraling through Draco's mind. Anger and betrayal pushed the magic through his veins. Narcissa left through the open door first. Draco took a deep breath, taking a perverse pleasure in the way he felt his magical energy pulsing with hatred. He knew someone would pay for what had happened, he just wasn't quite sure how.

As Draco swept out the room the scribe could be heard letting out a high pitched yelp as several pots of ink imploded, liquids of black, dark green and red spilling across the desks and dripping to the floor.

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To be continued?

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End file.
